


Dead Man's Switch

by amarriageoftrueminds



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Hannibal Season 3, M/M, Not Beta Read, Spoilers, Tumblr, consensual murder, hopefully not too fluffy, impending character death, just menacing, not gory, or consensual suicide, power-tools, themes of cannibalism (but that's a no-brainer OMG PHRASING CAT PHRASING)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarriageoftrueminds/pseuds/amarriageoftrueminds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Will was tracking the smooth and precise movement of his hands, eyes blank, not really seeing; memories of him slumped half-asleep in Hannibal's kitchen chair, late evening, watching him cook, glasses slipping down his nose. Of course he'd laid out everything where he could see.</p>
  <p> 'You're remarkably calm, Will.'<br/>The sound of Will lips separating made that characteristic 'tsk-ing' noise before he spoke.<br/>'Wouldn't want to spoil the meat.'<br/></p>
</blockquote>.<br/>.<br/><blockquote>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <span class="small">so, hey, turns out, randomly writing a thousand words of ‘Hannibal cutting Will’s head open with an angle-grinder to eat his brain’ at 4am really does make that idea feel less bad...?</span>
    <br/>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Man's Switch

 .

.

Hannibal plugged the angle-grinder into the adaptor and walked slowly backwards towards the dining table, spooling out the cord as he went.

Like – he smiled at the image – an angler reeling out his line. 

Had to make sure he had enough slack; wouldn't want it to jerk out of his hands. 

There was a hushed and solemn fondness in the air between them, a comfortable silence but bleak, as there had been during their last few sessions together in Baltimore. A silence that was, in retrospect, funereal. 

When he arrived beside Will, he saw that he was gripping the arms of his chair and staring straight ahead, glassily, like he'd used to look when coming out of a seizure, though under the thin black-leather belt which bound him to the chair his white-shirted chest was rising and falling smoothly.

 'What did you give me?' He asked Hannibal, his voice faint, as if the bodily commands which controlled speech had been dredged up from a great depth. 

 'A mild sedative, to keep you still.' Hannibal said. 'I would prefer to do this cleanly...' He cut his eyes at Will's profile and softly murmured: 'I could give you a local anaesthetic...'

Will blinked. 'You could, but you won't.'

He spoke with the same toll of finality as he did when making his crime-scene summations; not an ounce of uncertainty in his voice.

 'I don't want you to feel any pain.'

Will exhaled a laugh through his nose, a crooked semi-bitter smile, and half turned his head, taking in Hannibal in his side-eye. 

 'Yes you do. You want me awake for this. That is how the Ripper rips.'

A frown flickered across his face, a sudden uncertainty. The edge of something. A memory?

Hannibal cocked his head and leaned back a little, fringe in his eyes, curious to know where that odd phrase had come from; willing Will to turn and meet his riveted stare.

 'You don't need to worry.' Will muttered. 'I won't go inside.'

 'Your body may not give you that choice, Will.'

Will wasn't listening. He was staring at the door. 

Hannibal followed his gaze and glanced over his shoulder at it, just out of interest. He had chosen the position at the head of the table so that Will would have a clear line of sight. They both knew it. 

The final resignation to fate, the serenity of it; of all flavours was Hannibal's favourite. He imagined Will's would taste bitter-sweet.

Let him strain for the distant whine of sirens, let him lift up his heart.

No one was coming to save him.

Hannibal brought his tray of surgical instruments to the table, took the induction hob out of the sideboard and placed it beside them, set the frying pan on to heat, waited, and then sliced a couple of slivers of butter in, which sizzled and swam. Sprinkled in a few fresh herbs until the air grew thick with the fragrance, like holy incense.

In his mind he selected a piece of music and set the record playing, that spinning round a perfect echo. Only the melody trilling in his blood was enough, no earthly music could compare.

Will was tracking the smooth and precise movement of his hands, eyes blank, not really seeing; memories of him slumped half-asleep in Hannibal's kitchen chair, late evening, watching him cook, glasses slipping down his nose. Of course he'd laid out everything where he could see.

 'You're remarkably calm, Will.'

The sound of Will lips separating made that characteristic 'tsk-ing' noise before he spoke. 

 'Wouldn't want to spoil the meat.'

Hannibal allowed his chin to quiver with a smile. 

Tools ready, he picked up his angle-grinder once more and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it, suppressed a jolt of regret that he hadn't done more research into which was the very best. Bosch were usually reliable. Diamond teeth. A burning cut, extremely painful. The smell of it would be pervasive. Good. He wanted to _remember._

He pressed the power button and gave it an experimental whir, just for a second, to test that everything was operating smoothly. It was appallingly loud, but Will didn't flinch. 

Hannibal wanted very much for Will to look at him. His heart felt big. 

 'If you asked me to,' he heard himself saying, 'I would kill you first, and do this afterwards.'

Finally, Will blinked, turned his head slowly and looked up at him. His eyes were clear as sea glass, looking right through him.  _Seeing_ him. A look of such striking lucidity, it was as if he'd shaken off the sedation entirely. Hannibal took in the dangerous whites of his eyes, the long eyelashes, the creases across his forehead. He had always looked so appealing from above.

 'But then I wouldn't get to say goodbye.' Will said, something beautiful and nasty playing around the corners of his mouth.

Hannibal swallowed, summoned the abyss into his eyes, to swallow up that look. No more masks.

 'No. You wouldn't.' (Will turned away from him, back to the door.) 'This isn't necessarily goodbye, you know. You should retain the power of speech for some time. Chin down, please.' Like a barber-surgeon addressing a new customer.

He held the grinder up with as much loving care as he knew how.

 'If you're... taking last requests...' Will said, and for the first time there crept into his voice a plaintive, sorrowful note, though even now his words were slow and measured.

 'Yes?'

 'Don't feed me to anybody else.'

For a fleeting moment Hannibal considered denying him, just to be contrary, but it was inconceivable that he should share this meal with any other. Astonishing that Will would think he might. Who else was there? None but he. 

 'I won't...'

He stared down his arm, along to the grinder, felt the slight shift of Will's breathing through his forehead, reverberating back up his forearm, testing out the place where he would make his first mark. Imagined he could even feel the twin impacts of Will's blinking eyes.

 'Are you ready?'

 'Yes.'

 'You're certain?'

 'I'm never certain. And you shouldn't play with your food.'

Hannibal blinked. Such affection, rippling through him like warm water.

In his head Fauré's choir were singing  _ad te omnis caro veniet_  and the deep trumpeting brass could almost have been a crash of footsteps upon the stair. Was the door-handle turning? He hoped Will heard. He hoped Will hoped.

He put his thumb over the power button.

 'Goodbye, Will.'

 'Goodbye Hannibal.'

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> MY FIRST HANNIBAL-POV AND I DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE?  
> oh god what does that say about me  
> ( _the record playing is, of course, the Introit & Kyrie part of Fauré's Requiem_)


End file.
